


Panic Gets You Nowhere

by defying3reason



Series: College Boys and High School Girls [9]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-17 08:50:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2303822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defying3reason/pseuds/defying3reason
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras convinces himself his cat is dying in the middle of the night. A sleep-deprived Grantaire isn't as sympathetic as he probably should be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Panic Gets You Nowhere

Grantaire trudged in from work at the museum, feet dragging and face set in a weary, completely involuntary scowl that he likely wasn’t aware of. His hair was sticking up in several places from him having run his hands through it in frustration, and he reeked of cigarette smoke. He’d gotten his habit down to less than a pack a week (though that was as much to do with financial constraints as willpower), so these days when he smoked it meant he felt like he _needed_ the cigarette.

Then again, he was working in downtown Salem, and it was nearing the end of September. Tourist season was upon them, and with its imminence came increased business, higher frequency of odd or irate customers, and lots of red-tape style administrative bullshit.

Enjolras and Combeferre took one look at him before wincing in sympathy. Combeferre set his book down and climbed to his feet. “Did you eat yet, Grantaire? I have some leftover takeout from the Thai place, if you want it.”

“M’not hungry. I just want to sleep.”

Combeferre nodded and sat back down. Enjolras was up, then.

Enjolras followed Grantaire into their room and gathered some comfortable clothes from the closet while Grantaire stripped out of his restrictive tour guide clothes. He passed the threadbare sweatpants and t-shirt to Grantaire, then pulled down the blanket from the bed, fluffed Grantaire’s pillow, and sat down on the mattress beside Grantaire’s spot.

Grantaire collapsed a moment later, wearing the t-shirt backwards and seemingly unaware of it. Smirking fondly, Enjolras smoothed down some of the dark, wayward hair, and bent down to place a kiss on his temple. “What time are you leaving for work tomorrow?”

Grantaire’s eyes had shut the moment his head hit the pillow, but he cracked one of them open to deliver his mournful reply. “Seven. We’ve got a fucking staff meeting, so I need to be out of here by six thirty if I want to have enough coffee in my system to be functional before it starts.”

“They’re being vile to you, aren’t they?” Enjolras asked, trying to sound genuine in his sympathy. In reality, he wouldn’t have minded trading low-wage jobs with his fiancé. The museum gig sounded heavenly in comparison to barista work, which had lost what little charm it had possessed after two years doing it. If anything, getting hit on by adolescent girls got more annoying with time, not less.

“Enj, I’ve worked closings all week and now they want me functional at fucking seven. Plus I gave six tours today. Six!”

“The tours only last a half hour. That’s three hours of actual work during an eight hour shift.”

“They last closer to forty minutes with questions, so that’s over three hours of talking while projecting my voice over those loud, rude ass motherfuckers and their screaming children. I sucked enough cough drops today that I think my throat is just permanently menthol tinged from now on. Plus I have to pretend to be personable and pleasant and like I don’t hate humanity for the entire time I give the damn tours. I usually want to hide in a dark corner and whimper, not smile and act friendly. I don’t know how I’m going to get through the next month.”

Enjolras slid down next to him and gathered Grantaire into his arms. “You’ll make it because you’re brilliant and you can do anything when you really invest yourself. And you will, because the overtime plus the tips are going to give us a few months of comparatively easy finances. Think about it, ‘Taire. We’ll have a real food budget. We could even get fancy, and go on a real date for our anniversary this year. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

That thought did get a small, stubborn little smile from Grantaire. He nuzzled against Enjolras and made an almost inaudible noise of contentment. “S’almost worth dealing with all this bullshit, coming home to you.”

“Mm. I feel similarly about the café. It’s okay, ‘Taire. Someday we’ll have jobs we like. I’ll finish grad school, get a real job with a living wage, and then you can work on your art and it won’t even matter how much money you get from it.”

“Fuck that. I’ll pull my weight. I ought to. The majority of the student debt is mine.”

Enjolras sighed. By the time he finished grad school, it was actually going to be the other way around. But this wasn’t the time to let his vague dread of the future darken his mood. He was supposed to be cheering Grantaire up with cheerful fantasies, not dragging him down by sharing Enjolras’ own fears. He dropped a few more kisses over his fiancé’s tired features, then chided him a little about his exhaustion and told him to go to bed.

“M’in bed. Ll’be asleep in a sec. I’ve got an excellent pillow.” He very insistently set his head on Enjolras’ chest and closed his eyes. Enjolras laughed.

“’Taire, let me up. I’ve still got a few more chapters to skim before I’m allowed to even think of sleep. Tomorrow I’ve got classes, two papers to write, and a shift at the café.”

Grantaire made a whiny noise as he did it, but he let Enjolras go and settled into his own pillow. Enjolras gave him one more kiss, then crawled out of bed to go back to his study nest in the living room.

Feeling marginally better, Grantaire shut his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

What felt like five minutes later, but was actually a few hours, Enjolras came charging into the room, slamming the door open with a large bang that had Grantaire bolting upright in bed. His eyes were gummed shut from sleepies, so he rubbed forcefully at them until they opened enough for him to blearily blink at Enjolras. “Huh? Wha’s going on?”

“Grantaire, my cat is dying!”

And then Grantaire realized that not only was Enjolras absolutely covered in fur, but he was clutching the horrible little beast to his chest while he stood in the doorway.

The cat wasn’t allowed in their room. None of the cats were allowed in their room, but especially not Enjolras’ cat, because the little shit shed enough for seven cats, and it was hyper and spazzy to boot, so it had a tendency to distribute its allergens far and wide. Grantaire often had to retreat to the bedroom even when he’d rather laze in the living room with Combeferre and Enjolras, because he couldn’t easily breathe in any room but his own. At the height of the summer shedding season, Enjolras actually brought him meals in bed since he couldn’t take the prep time in the kitchen.

Grantaire slowly dragged the blanket up until it was covering his face up to his nose, leaving only his disapproving blue gaze visible. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Grantaire, help. He’s sick, and I looked it up to see if I should take him to the vet, and everyone says I need to get him there as soon as possible because if his skin turns black like this then it’s necrosis and he’s going to die if I don’t get it treated.”

To be fair, the cat did look really unhappy, but he also looked fairly spritely in his displeasure. Raoul didn’t seem all that concerned about pending mortality; he looked like he’d rather like his ridiculous golden haired human to let go of him, or at least stop squeezing him like that.

“Uh…what the fucking fuck do you want me to do about it?”

Enjolras looked close to tears. “I don’t know! I don’t know what to do. He’s got this funny looking patch of black gunk on his chin. It’s like, like crusted there, like his skin is turning black, and his fur is falling out and it’s all red and irritated where it’s not black. So I googled it to see if he needs to go to the vet, and everyone said that if his skin turns black it means blood’s not getting there because the tissue is dying, and that’s necrosis and if I don’t get a vet to check it out then he’s going to die.”

Grantaire’s brain was starting to wake up a little, but it was still a far cry from being able to match pace with Enjolras’ adrenaline and fear fueled ranting. “So, um…call the vet?”

“I _can’t_ call the vet, because it’s four in the morning and the vet’s not twenty four hours! And really, it’s pretty horrible that there’s no animal equivalent of an ER, because what are people supposed to do in these situations? Just watch their pets die if they happen to fall ill outside of office hours? Oh god, Grantaire, I’m going to be sick. My cat’s going to die, and it’s all because I couldn’t get him to the vet at four in the morning.”

The blanket fell from Grantaire’s limp fingers as he gaped at his fiancé in horror. “It’s four in the morning? You came in here and started screaming at me at _four in the fucking morning_?! And there’s absolutely nothing we can do about the damn cat anyway?”

“You don’t understand,” Enjolras pleaded. “Grantaire, I need you right now.”

“And I need my sinuses not clogged with cat fur! I need to god damn sleep so I can be functional for a fucking meeting in three hours. I need there to not be a fucking cat in my room!”

“You’re a monster!” Enjolras shrieked.

Grantaire’s eyes were already starting to itch, and he could feel the first in a series of painful sneezes coming on. “I hate you. We’re getting a divorce.”

“We’re not even married yet.”

“Well now we’re never going to be! If I had an engagement ring, I’d chuck it at your stupid fucking head!”

Raoul finally managed to wriggle free of Enjolras’ embrace. With a victorious yowl, he took a run around the room and then scrambled under the bed, well out of reach of any of his humans.

Grantaire really hoped the full moon and the streetlamps outside were giving off enough light for Enjolras to fully appreciate the strength of his glare and how pissed off he was. “You are the absolute worst.”

“’Taire, what are you doing?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire had just stumbled out of bed and tripped on the sheets wrapped around his legs.

“I’m leaving before my throat closes up and my nose clogs and I strangle to death on your fucking cat’s allergens.”

“You could have a little bit of sympathy, you know.”

Grantaire let out an exasperated noise and snatched his hoodie from the back of a chair. “Oh go fuck yourself. You’re fucking divorced.” He stomped out of the room without grabbing shoes and continued through the living room towards the front door.

As he left the apartment, he heard one last shout from Enjolras. “We’re still not married, asshole!”

* * *

It took a few tries to get Courfeyrac to respond to his cell phone, what with it being four in the god damned morning, but eventually the kid answered, sounding just as groggy and befuddled as the hour of the day warranted.

“Enjolras is being a dick. Can I crash on your couch?”

“Uh…can you get your own ass here?”

“You want me to walk to _Lynn_? That kind of defeats the purpose of running out of my house so I can get enough sleep to be coherent for work. By the time I get there I’ll have enough time left to take a quick nap.”

Courfeyrac groaned. “Can’t you just apologize to Enjolras and get your bed back? Seriously, dude, I just got to sleep like two hours ago. Dad was having a rough night.”

“Fuck no. Enjolras needs to apologize to me. I’m the one leaving in a defiant demonstration of my righteous indignation. That asshole charged into our room with the fucking cat in his arms, getting his noxious fur everywhere, and started blathering on about how the cat was dying because he had some gunk on his chin.”

Courfeyrac was quiet for a moment. “Is Raoul okay? I mean, if the cat is really sick then Enjolras is probably having a panic attack.”

“He can have his panic attack with ‘Ferre. I’ve got a meeting in three hours. You know what, fuck off. I’ll just hang out at the twenty four hour dunks and try to get enough coffee in my system to be coherent for a fucking meeting and then eight straight hours of pretending I like the public and care about Great Man history.”

Grantaire could just make out the sound of keys jingling in the background, and a wicked grin lit his face. Courfeyrac might have been a charmer, but no one could guilt trip like Grantaire.

“Don’t drink any coffee. I’m on my way, and you fucking owe me.”

“I’ll make break…I’ll buy you breakfast in the morning,” Grantaire promised.

“No you fucking won’t, because you and Enjolras are broke as fuck. Just stay where you are. I’ll be right there.” Courfeyrac hung up, and Grantaire sat down on the curb to wait for him, pleased with the turn the night was taking.

Let Enjolras cry all he wanted over his gunky cat. Grantaire was going to grab another hour or so of sleep on Courfeyrac’s couch, and then make use of his delightful Keurig and most likely get a free, competently prepared breakfast out of the deal as well, since Courfeyrac had refused his offer.

When Courfeyrac found him, Grantaire was still sitting on the side of the road, but he had his head propped up in his hands and he’d nodded off. Courfeyrac’s father was buckled into the passenger side, confused and spacey as ever, and asking a lot of questions about why he was wearing his slippers outside.

Grantaire had the decency to feel a smidge bad about leaning on his best friend like this; after all, the bags under Courfeyrac’s eyes were actually more severe than the ones under his own. Then he remembered all the nights he’d crashed at Courfeyrac’s at his friend’s request to help out with Charles, and decided to just enjoy the comfy couch with the knit and crochet afghans Bridget had made, and say thank you when he got his coffee in the morning.

* * *

Meanwhile, Enjolras wasn’t having a panic attack, but he was getting pretty close. After Grantaire stormed out of the apartment he slumped against the wall and buried his face in his cat’s fur. Between Raoul’s yowling and the slammed door Combeferre had finally been roused. He stumbled into the room in his robe and slippers with most of his hair sticking straight up.

“Enj? Why did you bring the cat into the room?”

“He’s dying, ‘Ferre. And Grantaire didn’t care. He just yelled at me and took off. He said we’re getting a divorce.”

“But you’re not married.”

Raoul finally managed to struggle free from Enjolras’ grip as his fingers went limp. He let out another yowl of displeasure and then darted under the bed. The bed continued to spit and hiss anytime either of them got too close to it.

Combeferre tiredly rubbed at his eyes as he tried to process what was going on. "So wait, you and Grantaire had a fight...over the cat. What's wrong with the cat?"

"He's dying," Enjolras repeated. He sat down on the hissing bed and hugged his knees to his chest. "I found this awful black gunge on his face. His fur's falling off where the gunge is, and his skin's all raw and red where it's not black. I looked it up online-"

"Well no wonder you're panicking," Combeferre interrupted. "Looking up information about pet maladies online ends about as well as when you do it for humans. Trust me, I know. Whatever you read is probably making you jump to Joly-ish conclusions. I sincerely doubt that Raoul is dying."

"I-I just checked to see if it was something I ought to take him to the vet over, and it is. The only reason for his skin to turn black is if it's not getting blood. That's necrosis, and he could die from necrosis if it's not treated."

Combeferre scrunched his face up in concentration as he thought that over. "That actually sounds right...wait, how'd he get necrosis? That's like gangrene, isn't it?"

"I don't know."

"Did you see if it was contagious?"

"I...I didn't check that part."

"Of course you didn't check that part, because you were obviously only concerned about your _own_ damn cat." Combeferre started stomping towards the doorway.

Enjolras ran after him. "'Ferre? What are you doing?"

"I'm going to check both of my cats for necrosis, obviously!" Combeferre yelled at him, giving every indication that he was jumping to Joly-ish conclusions over the state of his own cats.

He got ahold of Logan first and found no suspicious blackened skin or loose pieces of fur. To his horror, Gladiator also had a small spot of black gunge on his chin. Enjolras tried to cheer Combeferre up by explaining that at least it wasn't as big as the patch of black on Raoul's chin, but Combeferre was still obviously irritated with him.

Enjolras decided that the best course of action was to focus on a solution, rather than getting themselves mired in assigning blame. When he expressed that, Combeferre's brows knit together in a worrying manner that strongly reminded Enjolras of the time his cat had given Combeferre's cats fleas.

They spent the next two hours on the internet, alternating between looking for emergency twenty four hour vets in their area (there weren't any) and scaring themselves stupid by googling blackened skin and cats. Enjolras started pacing around the room repeating to himself that his cat was dying, then disappeared to drag Raoul out from under the bed. He then resumed his pacing, this time clutching the cat to his chest as he did so.

They both crashed sometime around sunrise. When Grantaire snuck back into the house to grab his work clothes, he found them asleep on the couch with their laptops open in front of them. Raoul and Logan were sitting on the carpet in front of them grooming each other, while Gladiator glowered at him from a perch on the scratching post.

Grantaire shook his head, and almost left without waking them, but he reconsidered. He knelt down in front of Enjolras and kissed the side of his face. The blond lashes began to flutter. The poor guy's brow was still creased with worry, and his neck was probably going to kill him all day thanks to the angle he'd dropped off at. Grantaire kissed him again, and whispered against his ear. "I'd never divorce you, so you know."

"I know," Enjolras murmured. "How's Raoul?"

"Still breathing." Grantaire leaned back, taking a normal sitting position. "He looks as derpy as ever, honestly."

"Don't even start with the short bus kitty jokes. Not only are they not funny, but they're pointless to boot. If Raoul actually were brain damaged, which he's not, it wouldn't affect my love for him in the least."

"If that were really the case you'd freely admit that that's one special cat you've got there. Look, I've gotta run. I can't afford to be late for this meeting, and I don't have nearly enough caffeine in my system to get through it as is. Are you gonna be okay? Did you and 'Ferre make a battle plan to attack the cat health crisis?"

"We're going to call the vet as soon as they open and take the first available spot. 'Ferre said he'd spot us the cost of the bill, but we'll have to pay him back with your busy season bonus money. Looks like we won't get those date nights after all."

He looked so damn guilty and disappointed in himself that Grantaire found words leaving his mouth that he'd never expected to utter. "Don't worry about it, Enj. Your cat's health is more important."

Enjolras' expression shifted from self-disgust to confusion. "I think I need to go to bed. I thought I just heard you say that taking the cat to the vet was more important than food and date money."

"I say some pretty stupid shit when you look sad. Uh...good luck at the vet. Shoot me a text and let me know what his diagnosis is, okay?"

"Good luck at work." Enjolras leaned in for a kiss, and then Grantaire climbed to his feet and left. Still feeling somewhat dazed, Enjolras shuffled off to his room and went to bed without waking up Combeferre.

Some hours later, when the two of them were loading hissing, yowling cat carriers into Combeferre's car while Combeferre rubbed at his sore neck, it occurred to Enjolras to feel bad about that.

* * *

Grantaire never got his text about the cat. Even though he was ninety percent sure Enjolras had been overreacting, he couldn't help but feel unnerved by the lack of updates. In all honesty, he didn't give much of a shit about the cat. His only real investment in the whiny, allergy infested fleabag came from his investment in Enjolras; the cat made his fiance happy, and Enjolras would be sad if something happened to the cat. Ergo, if something bad happened to the cat, Grantaire would be sad as well.

He hated seeing Enjolras frown, and the few times he'd seen the man cry had nearly destroyed him.

After work finally got out Grantaire dragged himself the few blocks to the Musain. Enough of his friends would have gathered there for _someone_ to know what was going on with the cats, and besides that, there was caffeine at the Musain.

Courfeyrac took one look at Grantaire when he trudged over to their table and then slid his full coffee cup across to him. "I'll get another one. You need this more than I do."

"I don't want your sugary...how much espresso's in this thing anyway?" Grantaire didn't bother to wait for an answer, but just downed the latte. Courfeyrac returned a few minutes later with a black coffee for Grantaire and another overly-sweet latte for himself.

"So how's the short bus kitty doing?" Courfeyrac asked.

Grantaire shrugged. "No fucking clue. Enj still hasn't answered any of my texts. Do you think the thing actually died, and he's, like...too distressed to answer me?"

"Shit, I hope not." Courfeyrac frowned. "I'm going to feel bad about making fun of the cat if it's actually dying."

"Enjolras' cat is dying?" Joly piped up, only having heard part of the conversation. Legle, Bahorel, and Musichetta all quickly turned their attention to Courfeyrac and Grantaire.

"Dunno. Enjolras certainly thought the thing was when he chased R out of their place at four in the morning," Courfeyrac said.

"He pulled a you and used google searches to convince himself the cat had gangrene or something," Grantaire explained.

Joly made the expected high pitched noise of panic at Grantaire's words, and was patiently soothed by his husband while they continued the conversation. The friends debated the likelihood of the cat actually having necrosis (Bahorel declared it fucking unlikely at best) and then tried to figure out why Enjolras and Combeferre hadn't called them.

Eventually, Grantaire's phone chimed with a text. The table went silent in anticipation as he read it. "Huh. It's Enjolras. He says the cat is fine."

"Of course the cat's fucking fine. Did he say what the black stuff was?" Bahorel asked.

"The black stuff was his skin turning black because of the lack of oxygen. How is necrosis fine? It's not fine! There are, in fact, few things less _fine_ than necrosis and dear me now I'm starting to think of them...oh God. Oh God, Bossuet, _now I'm thinking of them_!"

Legle stroked Joly's hand and whispered soothing nonsense to him until he started to calm down again. Meanwhile, Grantaire couldn't puzzle out his two word text ( _cat's fine_ ) so he decided to call his boyfriend. Helpfully, the table remained quiet so they could hear his half of the conversation.

"Hey Enj...uh...so the cat's okay?"

"Yes," Enjolras answered in a tight, clipped tone of voice. "Raoul is fine. The vet said he's perfectly healthy, and complimented us several times over for the care we're taking of him."

"So what was with the black stuff on his skin? And his fur falling out?"

"That was nothing you need to worry about."

Grantaire grinned. To the untrained ear, Enjolras sounded irritated and a bit scary. To someone who'd devoted an excessive amount of their time to studying the man's every breath, movement, and inflection, the truth was obvious. Enjolras was embarrassed about something.

"Babe, you woke me up at four in the morning when I had a miserable ass work meeting-"

"Oh, 'Taire, I'm sorry. I forgot all about your meeting. How did it go?"

"Don't change the subject by pretending you give half a rat's ass about my problems."

"That's unfair. You know I give a sizable amount of rat ass about your problems."

"Then treat them with the respect they deserve and not as material for deflection. You sabotaged my meeting by waking me up at asshole o'clock to cover me with allergens. What was the black gunge? I deserve to know," Grantaire insisted.

He caught the barest hint of a defeated sigh from Enjolras. "Acne."

"What?" He couldn't have heard that right.

It sounded like Enjolras was gritting his teeth. "It was acne. My cat has zits. Apparently cats sometimes get those, and it can happen at any age. The vet recommended we clean the food and water dishes more regularly, since scraping their chin against the side of the bowls can irritate their skin if the bowls aren't clean. She said that's probably how Combeferre's cat got the zits from Raoul. And she said that it was a mild enough case that she didn't need to prescribe antibiotics. Apparently you can just use the stuff people use on zits, as long as it's a natural formula. She recommended any astringent with witch hazel in it."

"Oh my fucking god." Grantaire put the phone down for a second. "Guys, the cat has zits."

Bahorel's eyes widened. "And they turned his skin black and made his fur fall out? Dude. Cat zits are fucking metal."

Courfeyrac might have fallen out of his chair laughing as a theatrical affectation, but then, knowing him it also might have been legit.

Enjolras abruptly ended the call, giving Grantaire the impression that he'd overheard their friends laughing at his expense. Grantaire relayed everything Enjolras had said, and Musichetta immediately reached into her purse and handed him a little black bottle. "Here, you guys can borrow my spot treatment. It's all natural, it's got witch hazel in it, and the company conforms to all of Enjolras' ridiculously high standards for ethical production."

"Cool. Thanks, 'Chetta. Saves us the trouble of having to go out and...fuck, I just realized something. The vet still charges you for the appointment even if nothing's actually wrong. Enjolras just spent our date and food money on fucking cat pimples."

Courfeyrac clapped a bracing hand on Grantaire's back. "He's really very pretty, and you're madly in love with him."

"I am," Grantaire reminded himself. "Stupidly, even. Because he spent our date and food money on cat pimples and I'm not going to kill him for it." He scowled and rose to his feet. "I'm going to go home and not strangle my boyfriend. I'll see you assholes later."

"Hold on, you're dead on your feet. I'll give you a ride." Bahorel made to follow him, but then he noticed that Grantaire had stopped walking and was glaring at him suspiciously. "What?"

"I'll take the ride, but only on the condition that you don't come upstairs and bug Enjolras about the cat. He's going to have a hard enough time with me being an asshole. He doesn't need you on top of it."

"Gee Grantaire, you could always try not being an asshole," Musichetta suggested.

"I always try, and you see how well I succeed," Grantaire returned flippantly. He turned his attention back to Bahorel. "Well?"

"I won't give Enj a hard time. I just want to see if cat zits are as metal as they sound."

That sounded like a fair enough answer, or maybe it only sounded as fair as it did because Grantaire actually really was very tired and didn't want to walk home. At any rate, he agreed and accepted the ride.

* * *

Enjolras had the audacity to be sitting on the couch with his laptop, occasionally sipping from his J-Stor coffee mug, and generally looking unconcerned, like nothing remotely ridiculous had happened that day. Grantaire glowered at him while he kicked off his sneakers.

Bahorel stomped into the room with his muddy boots still on, making Combeferre visibly cringe from his spot on the armchair with his own open laptop and a mug of herbal tea. "So where's the cat with the fucking metal acne?" Bahorel asked.

"Huh?"

"Bahorel decided that cat acne is inherently more badass than human acne, and he wants to observe it," Grantaire explained. He reached into his hoodie pocket and extracted the little bottle Musichetta had given him. "'Chetta loaned us her spot treatment. She says it's all natural hippie dippie shit with witch hazel, so it'll be perfect for your little asshole's zits."

"Oh good!" Enjolras powered down his laptop and went to grab the bottle from Grantaire. "I had no idea what to get. The vet just kept saying an astringent with witch hazel, and I wasn't sure what she was talking about. I've never had a zit before in my life, so her repeating that I could use anything that was safe for my own skin on Raoul's wasn't very helpful...why are you all glaring at me?"

"Oh my fucking god. I really am going to strangle him," Grantaire near-growled.

"'Taire, go to bed," Combeferre said, in a tone of voice that was somehow both gentle and firm. Grantaire responded, and managed to trudge off to their room without hitting his clueless fiance. Enjolras continued to look around the room in confusion.

"What?"

"Have you really never had a pimple before, Enjolras?" Bahorel asked.

Enjolras frowned. "Is that unusual?"

"He never had braces either," Combeferre said. "Those pearly whites are entirely the product of nature."

"Oh fuck you, asshole." Bahorel rubbed at his jaw, obviously reliving some past trauma.

"It's not like I can help having good skin and straight teeth."

Bahorel missed out on seeing the cat zits. He dazedly left the house, still absently rubbing at his jaw and muttering darkly about headgear and retainers.

"I guess we'd better give our cats their acne treatment now that we've got the witch hazel," Combeferre said. He let out a resigned sigh and set his computer aside. "I can't imagine they're going to be pleased about having gel rubbed on their fur."

"Logan's a sweet tempered cat. He'll probably think we're just petting him."

"Logan's not the one I need to molest with herbal gel."

"Right..."

Enjolras had a few new scratches when he crawled into bed with his fiance. He snaked his arms around Grantaire's waist and pressed a few kisses to the side of his face. Grantaire let out a tiny murmur to let him know he was still awake. "Still want to strangle me?" Enjolras asked.

"Mm...not right this second, no. Have you seriously never had a zit before? Like not even once?"

"I don't think so...maybe once. Probably at least once, come to think of it."

"Don't lie about it. It's not going to make me hate your stupid flawless marble skin any less."

"Oh come on, 'Taire. Don't hate me because I'm beautiful. I can't help it." Enjolras smiled when he felt the rumble of Grantaire's laughter.

"I don't think I've ever actually heard you refer to yourself as beautiful before," Grantaire managed to choke out around his giggles. "So you've noticed you're inhumanly and unfairly sexy, huh?"

"Just because I don't happen to place much value on it doesn't mean I haven't noticed. By the way, I'm sorry for freaking out the way I did. I noticed that once you were coherent, you were understanding and supportive. I appreciate it."

Grantaire turned in his arms so that they were lying face to face. "Hey, I get it. Pets mean a lot to people and it's scary when you think something's wrong. Granted, I wish we hadn't just spent an obscene amount of money getting a diagnosis of late blooming kitty puberty, but it can't be helped. Better to be safe than sorry, right?"

"It wasn't as hard a hit as I expected, actually. They saw Raoul and Gladiator together, so the appointment fee was reduced already, and neither cat actually needed any treatment. We're out forty bucks. I'm pretty sure I can make that up in tips during one busy holiday week."

"That is such a fucking relief," Grantaire whispered. He buried his face in the crook of Enjolras' neck and let out a slightly hysterical sounding laugh. "Work's been kinda shitty lately. I was using our future date nights as a bribe for myself so I'll stay on my best behavior and not mouth off to the tourists."

"I've been doing something similar at the cafe, actually," Enjolras admitted. "I keep thinking about that trip we took for our six-month. Obviously, we couldn't afford a hotel getaway, but...I don't know. I just keep thinking about it. I like living with Combeferre, but it'd be nice to..."

"Not have to plan our sex lives around when he's going to be home? Yeah, that'd be swell." Grantaire closed his eyes and let out a content hum. "Who knows? I've got some commissions lined up. We definitely can't afford a week. The guys only pulled that off because Jehan had some connections or something at the hotel they booked and they got us a deal. But we might be able to do a weekend away or something."

"I'll keep saving my tip money. So you're definitely not divorcing me then?"

Grantaire laughed. "Nope. Freakishly perfect looking crazy cat lady that you are, I promise that I'll never divorce you."

"...I believe you mean crazy cat _gentleman."_

 

**Author's Note:**

> So...this is a pretty sad reflection of what my life has been like lately. On the plus side, my cat doesn't have necrosis. On the downside...yeah, panicked vet appointment over acne. I've also brought her in for a sunburn. White cats are prone to those, and mine doesn't have much fur on her ears to begin with, so when the burn started peeling it looked much worse than it was.
> 
> My sister requested the bit about Courfeyrac laughing his ass off, since that was her reaction to finding out we'd rushed the cat to the vet over acne.


End file.
